Closure
by Ashley A
Summary: Post IWRY and Pre HERO- Angel's reaction to the end of the Day That Wasn't. AWARD WINNER in the Feels Like fanfic awards.


Authors note:  All lines cribbed from IWRY belong to it's authors, David Greenwalt and Jeannine Renshaw.  Thanks guys for giving me such a beautiful story to tinker with!

Spoilers:  through Angel season one episode 8.

How does Angel react post IWRY and pre HERO?

Here's my take.

I own none of these wonderful characters, they all belong to Joss, ME, etc.  Please don't sue!

Enjoy!

Angel sits on the corner of his desk.  Stupified, he can do nothing but watch her walk out the door, out of his life again.  

_So I guess that's it._

_Yeah, that's it._

And she's gone, just like that.

He hits the leather bag hanging from his ceiling, over and over again.  Don't. _Punch. _Think. _Punch. _About. _Punch. _It.  

His heart screams with her absence.  He tries to keep his eyes off his bed, now made, no cartons of ice cream, no empty plastic containers with half eaten strawberries in them scattered around it.

_Punch.  Punch.  Punch.  PUNCH!_

The flimsy chain snaps, and he has to dive out of the way as the Everlast bag falls to the ground, having given it's life to aleviate his anger.  He rolls to a sitting position, and stares at it like it's a bomb that has a 10 second delay and he's already made it through 9.

_How can we be together if the cost is your life?  Or the lives of others?_

_I didn't think I could do it if I woke up with you one more morning._

_I felt your heart beat._

He gasps at this thought, and clutches at his now silent chest.  He knows, he feels he made the right decision. So why does it feel like he's dying? 

Go after her.  Tell her.  Screw the powers.  They don't need only us.  There are others!  More warriors, not just me and Buffy.

Even while his soul is yelling this at him, his mind knows it was the right thing to do.  The only thing. 

Feet clatter down the stairs to his _emptydead _apartment.

"Angel man, you allright?  I heard a crash…"

Doyle bursts in and stops in shock at the sight of his friend sitting on the floor contemplating the now sadly deflated punching bag.

"Uh, you okay?  She's gone now.  What did the bag ever do to you?  Not Buffy, of course…" he lamely finishes, realizing how his statement sounds.

"Doyle.  Please, leave me alone.  Everything's fine," Angel tells him, wanting to just bust out and spill his guts.  He actually has to slap a hand over his mouth in order to stop himself from doing just that.

He sighs, and pushes himself to his feet.  Doyle puts a concerned hand on Angel's shoulder.  "You sure?  You look kinda…strange," he says, punctuating this with a slap to Angel's arm.

 Angel walks away from the touch, not wanting any kind of pity right now.  He doesn't want to feel anything.

"I'm good, Doyle.  Give me some time.  I'll be up shortly."

"Well, if you're sure," Doyle queries, still not satisfied.

"Seriously.  I'll be up soon," Angel tells him, anything just _leave me alone!_

As Doyle retreats up the stairs, his voice floats down to Angel.  

"Let me know if you need anything."

A harsh laugh barks from Angel's throat.

He tries pacing.  He tries sitting.  He tries looking in the fridge about a hundred times.  No food.  He looks at the table in his kitchen.  Tea pot still in place, next to an unopened box of crackers.

_Oh, please.  They have the forbidden love of all time.  They've been apart for months.  Now, he's suddenly human?  I'm sure they're just down there having tea and crackers._

Growling in frustration, he swipes his hand over the table, knocking the pot and crackers onto the floor.  A manic giggle spills from his lips, which quickly turns to a moan of dispair.  He sinks to the floor, soaking his pants in the cold tea now covering the tile.

_Damn it damn it damn it damn it damn it I can't do this I need her I miss her too much I can't go on alone  alone always alone can't touch can't get involved_

Hot tears run from his eyes down his face.

_Oh God!  It's not enough time!_

_Shh… please…please…_

How could he make this choice?  How can he live without her?  He had thought crazily in that moment when he walked away from her through the smoke of the burning high school that physical separation would be enough.  He hadn't counted on the pain her absence caused his soul, his heart, his mind.  Not just not being able to touch her, to kiss her, to run his hands through the silky strands of her hair.  Being separated from the pull of her soul on his was way worse than the lack of human contact.  

When she had walked in his office door 24 hours ago, _only a few minutes ago, Angel, _his heart had dropped to the floor then raced back up in the space of a few seconds.  How had she known he had been in Sunnydale?  Had one of her cronies ratted on him?  Probably Harris, he thinks angrily, never could trust that whelp.

Shaking his head, he stumbles up off the kitchen floor and manages to walk to his dresser, for a dry pair of pants.  Drops the ruined ones on the ground, not caring what happens to them.  Pulls on a pair of sweats.  

He looks toward the bed again, and heads to it.  Crawls under the covers, which he promptly pulls over his head.  He takes a deep breath, searching desperately for any lingering trace of her scent.  Nothing.  Just Tide and some perfumey fabric softener Cordelia had bought him.

He begins to shake, a small tremor in his hands moving rapidly through his whole body.  He wraps his arms around his chest, trying to quell the movement with sheer force of will.  Nothing doing.

His eyes sting, and he tries urgently to stem the tide of wetness threatening to spill forth yet again.  _Wimp.  Sissy.  It was your decision to leave her.  Don't cry.  Don't cry.  DON'T.  CRY.  _

Too late.

He buries his face in his hands, and just lets go.  _Oh, God, Buffy, I am so sorry.  I'll never forget, love.  I promise._

A wail that sounds like a car alarm penetrates his ears, and he realizes that it's him making the high keening sound.

He stuffs his fist in his mouth, and squeezes his eyes shut as he shakes and cries for his lost love, his lost life, and his lost humanity.

A few days later, and the newly inflated punching bag hangs again from it's honored place in the living room.  

Cordelia clacks down the stairs in her new EXPENSIVE sandals, _they were worth a few weeks salary, right? _

"Angel?" she asks, her voice echoing in the seeminly empty apartment.  "Are you here?  I have that new office supply price list you wanted…" she walks the length of the small place, noting the pile of clothes and rumpled bed.  _Hmm, he's usually mister neaty-pants.  What's the deal?  _

"Okay, Angel, what's your story?  What's with the dire?"  She asks, and whips her head around at the sound of a throat clearing.

"Geez, Doyle, could you make a little more noise?  You almost scared me right out of my new shoes," she gripes at him, trying not to be a little scared by their bosses' absence.  

"He's not here," Doyle tells her unnecessarily.

"Duh, Doyle.  Where is he?" she smacks him on the arm, and he winces.  "Out.  I'm not sure where.  He said he would be back by morning."

"Well, I would hope so, or we'll be working for a pile of dust," she quips, but suddenly sobers.  

"This thing with Buffy really got to him, huhn?  She was only here a few minutes, but I guess that's all it takes.  They really do have the Romeo and Juliet factor going.  Not a good way to end up," Cordy relates, and Doyle smiles at her oversimplification of a very complex relationship.

"Darlin'," he says, putting his arm over her shoulders as they walk back up the stairs, "that's putting it lightly."

His leather duster flaps in the pre dawn breeze.  Early morning joggers have started to appear on the beach, _crazy humans, _he thinks.

The small object in his hands shines brightly when he opens his palm, and he doubts again the wisdom of what he is about to do.  Will this help?  Will it bring him any kind of closure?  He hopes with all his heart that it will at least bring some measure of peace to his smashed soul.

He walks to the edge of the pier, leans on the railing.  Watches the seagulls starting their early morning hunt for food.  He knows the sun is coming, but can't quite bring himself to do what must be done.

He turns away from the edge, then spins back, _no going back now, just do it._

He hurls the Claddagh ring into the water, and almost jumps after it as it makes its lazy descent into the deep blue of the early morning Pacific.

He stares after it, waiting for the inevitable feeling of completeness.  None comes.

His dark eyes try to follow the ring as it sinks into the water, never to be seen again.  

_It's the only way.  The best way.  I have to move on.  I have to live.  For the world.  For Buffy._

As he turns sharply and heads back to down the pier to his waiting behemoth of a car, his coat billows behind him like a cape.  _Dark, always dark.  _

_I'll never forget…I'll never forget…I'll never forget._

But she did.

_But I won't, _a tiny voice sighs inside him.  _And that's what matters._

Angel gets in his car, and tears out of the parking lot, knowing that the One Day he had with Buffy, his soul mate, his life, means more to him than any ring. 

He knows that the coming months will be hard for him.  But he can carry on, if only for the memory of her, and for the fight that seems to never end.

_So…I'm gonna go.  Start forgetting._

He knows he never will.


End file.
